CHAPTER TWELVE

|•| ANDRÉ BAUDELAIRE |•|

"So, where are you from?" the dark-haired man asked me, wearing an arrogant smirk on his face.

The bastard knew what he was doing. He had been riling me up with questions that were unnecessary, spinning around in his swivel chair, and twirling a pen I felt propelled to ram into his carotid artery and watch every ounce of life seep out of his eyes.

He was that annoying. His attempts at irking me only amplified my headache and heightened my hunger. My throat felt a little scratchy and my fangs were beginning to poke the inner walls of my mouth. It made me so sensitive. So sensitive, that I was drowning in the rhythmic movement of his heartbeat, eyeing his neck with an unnerving hunger that almost had me flying off the handle.

What was more unsettling and fuelled my need to bolt out of his office was how I didn't even have to try so hard before I could pick up on the numerous thuddings of heartbeats I could hear from a distance. It was incessant—like a shrill noi